


Aftershock

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Gap Filler, M/M, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-23
Updated: 2005-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Gapfiller for 122, what exactly does Brian do right after getting Justin to the hospital?





	Aftershock

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

You don't notice that it's morning until one of nurses prompts a small window open leading the way for a patch of light to dance on the floor. She thrusts a cup of coffee in your hand giving you no choice but to grab it. The hot coffee warms your fingers through the thin paper cup and you sweep the contents thinking that it might wake you up but it only burns your tongue and leaves your throat throbbing. You clench your eyes shut so that when they re-open you'll be face to face with reality and not this bad dream. But when you feel the prickling in your mouth and the numbness settles on your tongue you know that this is as real as it gets. 

The reflective linoleum floor, the fluorescent lights that make you feel nauseous if you look at them for too long. The men and women in the white robes and green scrubs. The worn chair that you've been sitting on all night that chafes in all the wrong places. The nurse who's been staring at you for the past six hours. This is real. A vein in your skull is pounding violently and you don't know if it's because of the unexpected surge of caffeine in your system or the fact that you woke up only to find out you weren't dreaming.

....

You try to find your way through the floors and corridors that all look alike, all smell alike and feel alike. The antiseptics and the blood, the occasional sob from behind closed doors, the people that all look the same only with different hair and facial features. The room numbers seem to ascend one moment and descend the next and all you know is that you're not there yet.

You don't stop walking until you hear a familiar voice slicing the air. Until now it's only been murmurs and moans, cries and typing. Coughing, muffled steps and carts being rolled by and the voice snaps you to stop. Firm hands on your shoulders that tug you towards more voices and worried faces. Michael presses you down on a chair and prods you with questions; “where have you been”s, “how are you”s. Concern mixed with irritation; you know that what he really wants to know is why-the-hell-did-you-leave and how-could-you. The questions weigh down his tongue but he doesn't utter them. He is nothing but stiff movement and repetition when all you see is his muscles straining beneath his skin, it doesn't seem to matter that you're not going to answer. Your hand travels to your pocket and your fingers tighten around the wrinkled piece of silk that is still moist but no longer warm.

....

_No one looks at Brian in the ER, all the doctors and nurses are working on Justin's body and he can do nothing but jog after them. They seem to be light years ahead of him; the gurney rolling over the smooth surfaces and their jargon going over his head. He doesn't understand what they're saying and their faces are expressionless masks but there's something about the way the redheaded doctor is clutching Justin's wrist and how the bandages that were white a few moments ago are now red that grates his nerves. But he can't think about it, he won't. He tells himself that if he can catch up with them everything will be alright._

....

You stand with your palms pressed against the stone wall of your bathroom, face down as the water cascades over your head and back, scorching your skin. You can feel your legs shaking but you tell yourself that it's the water; the water that is so hot it feels cold, that hits you so violently each drop could be a nail and you wouldn't notice the difference. You don't turn off the water until your body looks as if it was licked with flames and steam paves your way out of the shower. You cup your hands in the sink and bring the cool water to your face to make it feel like something more than an open blister and when you look up you have no reflection. All you can see through the thick fog cloaking the mirror is a dark silhouette that moves jerkily and although it does not look like you; it feels like you and you barely manage to stumble onto your bed before loosing consciousness.

You wake up to the ringing of the phone that you ignore by default: although it could be good news there's as big of a chance that it's not and you don't want to hear; at least not now. The stark light tells you it's afternoon but time doesn't matter when all you plan to do is smoke and by the time you finish your carton the air around you feels as toxic as the one filtered through your cigarettes.

....

The dance floor in Babylon is the same is it always has been and you let the strobe lights envelop your body as you sway your way onto the dance floor, joining the mass of bodies already there. The beats color your steps and you tilt your head to take in the crowd. No faces register and all you see is hands grasping, abs glistening and hips grinding. The rhythm infiltrates your limbs and you're moving further and further into the crowd. Someone brushes up against you, all white teeth that gleam in the purple lights and tan arms that hook themselves around your neck. A glance at his naked torso and you know that he'll do as you lead one of his hands off your shoulder and down to the rim of your jeans leaving the rest up to him. He doesn't hesitate before unbuttoning them and pressing down his hand because he knows that you're Brian-fucking-Kinney and he should be so lucky.

But hips are bumping into yours, flailing arms hitting your back and some queen wasted beyond belief pushes you as he tries to navigate in the sea of dancers. You tighten your eyelids in a feeble attempt to focus on the hand rubbing against you, try to feel something. But the trick's hand is sticky and clammy and it soon becomes evident that a piece of hard glitter is attached to the dried alcohol on his palm and it doesn't feel like he's trying to jerk you off; it feels like he's trying to peel off your skin.

....

_Brian understands why a door is slammed in his face when Justin's rushed into the OR; he knows to stay out of the way. He also understands that he has to tell the nurse what happened and the little he knows about Justin's medical history, he understands that they need to get in touch with Justin's parents. But he doesn't understand why no one will tell him what's happening. Why no one looks him in the eye when he asks what's going on after it's established he and Justin aren't connected by blood or law. The nurse with no name tag tells him he has to wait until Mrs. Taylor arrives, because she,_ unfortunately, _does not have the authority to tell him anything. And when no one even glances at him anymore when they rush past with units of blood he doesn't know what else to do but call Michael. Because he knows he'll come regardless of where he is._

....

You arrive back to your loft with a blond in tow. He's good looking enough and he bought you with your two drinks even though he knew that you could afford them. He isn't a conquest or a prey: he's just convenient and appropriate. He blows you and you fuck him until he bucks beneath you and you push his head down into the pillows. He gasps for air and tries to dig his nails into your arm but with your hands on his shoulders your weight is pressed down on him and he stops struggling. And even though your fucking him it's not him you're thinking about. _Fuck you for making me to go to your prom, fuck your guilt trips, fuck your puppy eyes,_ and the body beneath you takes it, takes every last bit.

....

He's barely dressed when you show him the door and he makes some joke about how he's gonna be black and blue in the morning and sore for a week, but you couldn't care less. The neon bedroom light irritates your eyes – it seems to linger even after being turned off – and the thousand thread count sheets feel like sandpaper to your skin. You don't know if it's the combination of old poppers and a bottle of vodka or the fact that all you've had to drink – or eat – in the past 48 hours has been chock full of either caffeine or alcohol. But the reason doesn't matter as long as the outcome is the same and the tv is turned on to a black and white movie as you start to smoke your way through a pack of cigarettes. It takes you two drags to realize what movie you're watching and when the protagonist strokes his lower lip with his thumbnail as if he's about to bite it your neck stiffens and your right hand looses it's grasp on the cigarette, leaving it hanging limp from your lip. You don't stir a limb until the cigarette slips and lands on your thigh.

_Jennifer arrives shortly after Michael. The few minutes she spends with them her eyes are preoccupied with the figures moving around them, searching for the almighty doctors that will tell her what the stars have in store for her son. And when he can see her hands trembling when she walks back from the secluded waiting room he feels it in his gut: he doesn't want to know. And while Michael wraps his arms around her they neither see or hear him leaving as he loses himself in the labyrinth that is white linoleum and sterile details._

Michael will pick you up in about fifteen minutes to drive you to the hospital. Even though you've finished a pot of coffee you doubt that you're in the correct state of mind to drive. And even if you were you don't think you could handle what awaits you alone. You'll stay there for as long as takes to get answers – no matter what the answers are. You'll wait as long as it takes. You owe him that, and you know it's the most you can do. At least for now.


End file.
